


Wednesday Morning 3 a.m.

by Evilida



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pre-Slash, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-12
Updated: 2015-08-12
Packaged: 2018-04-14 09:35:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4559622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Evilida/pseuds/Evilida
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After his latest attempt at finding true love goes violently wrong, Wilson takes refuge with House.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wednesday Morning 3 a.m.

**Author's Note:**

> This is an older fanfiction that takes place after Amber's death, but before House and Cuddy became serious.

Gregory House was enjoying the expert ministrations of a call girl named Candie, when his doorbell rang. He didn't notice the noise and wouldn't have answered the door if he had. Candie was very good at her job, and all other considerations faded into the background. He did hear the pounding on his door that followed, but he ignored it. Candie was just getting to the interesting part; she was very expensive and he wanted to get his money's worth. The call girl, however, was distracted by the noise and lost her rhythm.

"Maybe you should get that. Aren't you a doctor? It could be an emergency," she said.

"It had better be," House said, getting to his feet with difficulty. He grabbed his robe and headed for the door. By the time House reached the door, the knocking had stopped. He opened the door wide. No one was there and he was about to close it again, when he heard a voice.

"House."

House turned in the direction of the voice and saw his best friend, James Wilson, sitting on the hallway floor. Wilson was soaking wet and dripping on to the carpet. His face was pale and there was a nasty bruise on his cheek. 

"I should have called. I didn't think that you would be busy."

"Well, I am busy, and the hooker who's keeping me busy charges four hundred dollars an hour. "

"I'll wait," Wilson said.

House nodded, shut the door and turned around. Candie was waiting for him. 

"I am not a hooker," she said. "I'm an escort."

"Yeah, and I'm not a Vicodin addict; I'm chemically challenged."

"My money," she demanded.

"Don't expect a tip," House said, going back to his bedroom to retrieve the envelope full of cash. 

When he came back, Candie was in the hallway. Wilson had gotten to his feet and was shaking her hand. House gave Candie the envelope, pulled Wilson into the apartment, and slammed the door.

"You look like hell. What happened?"

"Girlfriend troubles. Don't ask."

Wilson had removed his coat. His sweatshirt and jeans were wet underneath. Wilson looked for somewhere to hang his wet coat. 

"Damn it, Wilson. You're dipping everywhere. Take a hot shower and I'll get you something dry to wear. You know where the towels are. Put your wet clothes in the laundry basket."

House handed Wilson a t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants. While Wilson took a shower, House dressed and got a couple of beers from the fridge. When Wilson came out of the bathroom, looking ridiculous in the ill-fitting clothes, House was sitting on the couch watching a reality show. Wilson sat beside him and opened the beer House handed him. The television show didn't make much sense to Wilson. The announcer, manic with enthusiasm, kept assuring the viewing audience that what they were watching was very, very exciting. 

"Are you staying over, or are you just waiting for her to cool down?" House asked, at the first commercial break.

"Staying over. We broke up. It was ugly."

"She found out you were cheating."

"No," Wilson said. "I wasn't cheating. I just decided that things weren't working out. When I told her, she didn't take it very well."

"I can tell. That bruise is going to be pretty spectacular. Lady boxer, is she?"

"She hit me with a hairdryer," Wilson said, touching the bruise delicately and wincing. "It could have been much worse. She had a knife, but I got it away from her."

"You'd better put something on it. I've got a hot/cold compress in the freezer," House said. 

"Thanks," Wilson said, getting up and going into the kitchen.

"Are you going to call the police?" House called after him.

"No," Wilson said. "Paola's about five feet tall and 105 pounds. They wouldn't take it seriously. Besides I wasn't really hurt. I don't think she seriously intended to stab me with the knife anyway. She's just a bit volatile. I think it was meant to be a dramatic gesture."

"Well, "House said sarcastically, "if she didn't intend to kill you, I guess that makes it all right then."

"I accidentally cut her hand, getting the knife away from her. She was bleeding. I think she needed stitches but she wouldn't let me look at it."

"When does the hairdryer come into it?"

"I went into the bathroom where she keeps her first aid kit to get her a bandage. She followed me in, picked up the hairdryer, and swung. I just barged past her and out the front door. I'd had enough."

Wilson came back carrying the cold pack. House stood up to examine the bruise professionally.

"When she wouldn't let me look at her hand, I should have driven her to the emergency room. She needed medical attention. I was so angry I didn't think. I was afraid I was going to hit her back."

"You didn't though."

"Wanting to is bad enough. I could have called an ambulance."

"She could still dial 9-1-1 with her other hand," House said. "Don't expect me to care about her. She could have killed you." 

 

Wilson had always been impetuous in his relationships with women, but something in him had changed when Amber had died. He couldn't bear being alone. He'd always wanted a wife and family but now his desire had become an obsession. In his desperation to find "Mrs. Wilson", he'd lost all judgment. He became a target for any pretty woman with a sad story to tell. House had done his best to protect Wilson from opportunistic harpies, but he had not found the task easy. Wilson was intensely private about his personal life and resented any attempt by House to interfere. Usually all House could do was offer Wilson a safe place to stay when his latest relationship turned sour. House was tired of watching his best friend hurt himself over and over again.

If Wilson was too impetuous in affairs of the heart, House was too cautious. He had been in love only once in his life, but he had loved deeply. He had been devastated when he and Stacy had broken up. He had never allowed himself to fall in love because he had never wanted to give anyone the power to hurt him as Stacy had done.

Wilson had been the one friend willing to put up with his bitterness after the double blow of the infarction that crippled him and his breakup with Stacy. Wilson was the one person who truly understood him and he'd proven his loyalty over and over again. His flaws endeared him to House just as much as his virtues did, because they made him more interesting. Over the years, so gradually that House hadn't noticed, Wilson had become essential. Wilson was the only person in his life that House could not afford to lose.

 

House's leg woke him at an ungodly hour in the morning. His hand reached out to the bottle of Vicodin on the nightstand table. He opened the bottle with his eyes shut, popped a Vicodin in his mouth and swallowed. If Wilson were there to see him, he'd wince. He hated it when House swallowed his pills without water. Groggy and stiff with pain, House hobbled to the bathroom and relieved himself. He could see the bluish flickering light of the t.v. from the living room and headed toward it. Wilson was still too upset to sleep. He had muted the sound on the television and put on the closed captioning and was watching an infomercial. Wilson looked up at House, noticing the way that he grimaced with pain with every step. There was absolutely no pity in his assessment, which is why House tolerated it. It had never occurred to Wilson that House ought to be pitied.

"Want some company until the Vicodin kicks in?" Wilson asked. 

House sat next to him on the couch, resting his legs on the coffee table. Wilson had cocooned himself in House's blankets, but he obligingly untangled himself. He draped the blankets over the two of them. It was three a.m., an hour when our ancestors huddled together against the cold and dark, and it seemed natural and right for them to share this closeness. House turned his head to look at his best friend speculatively. There was enough life from the streetlights outside and the television to see him clearly. Wilson was hurt and exhausted; House had seldom seen him so vulnerable.

House's leg did not allow him to stay in one position long, so he had to shift position. Wilson moved away slightly, but House put his arm around him and drew the other man toward him. Neither House nor Wilson was normally physically demonstrative, but the dark stillness of the early morning made them both crave human contact.

The infomercial was over, and House picked up the remote control from the coffee table and turned off the television. Now House began to gently massage Wilson's neck and shoulders. Wilson carried his stress there, and House could feel how tender and inflamed the muscles were. Wilson protested at first, but House's touch was delicate and careful. Gradually House felt Wilson relax. When the massage was done, he again pulled Wilson close to him. The younger man rested his head against House's chest, as limp and sleepy as a contented housecat. House absently stroked the bare skin of Wilson's forearm, feather light touches that Wilson didn't appear to notice.

"Oh, that felt good," said Wilson after a minute or two of silence. He yawned widely and then sat upright. "I think I'll be able to sleep now. How's your leg?"

"Still pretty bad," lied House.

"The Vicodin should be working by now."

"Well, it isn't," House said more sharply than he intended. 

Wilson was concerned, and House half expected to hear a lecture on alternative pain control techniques and the necessity of monitoring his pain levels and Vicodin intake. Fortunately, he didn't pursue the topic. 

House again shifted position slightly so that he was now shoulder to shoulder with Wilson and could feel the heat and weight of his body next to his own. He resumed his light touch on Wilson's arm, an intimacy that would have seemed wildly inappropriate to Wilson in the light of day. 

"So what are you going to do? You can't go back to Paola. You can stay with me."

"No, that's okay. I don't want to put you out. I'll go stay at the hotel tomorrow."

"If you were putting me out, I'd tell you. It's a genuine offer. Pay me back in pancakes."

"I'll think about it."

"I could really use you right now. Taub, Kutner and Thirteen are damn useless as a team right now, and Foreman is too busy babysitting me and them to contribute much to the diagnostic process."

"I'm not a diagnostician."

"You're organized and efficient. That's what I need. Someone to help me with the details for a little while, while I concentrate on building up my department."

"I do have my own department to run," Wilson said.

"I didn't mean work details," House said. "I meant life details, like making sure I eat right and pay off my credit card bill. You may not have noticed, but I suck at life."

"I noticed," Wilson said," but I suck at life worse than you do."

"So are you going to stay with me?"

"I'll think about it."

This time Wilson's tone made it a polite but firm refusal. Wilson felt that House was pressuring him, and he didn't like it. House was disappointed. He had hoped that the prospect of being needed would tempt Wilson. He tried another argument.

"You shouldn't be alone. You make really bad decisions when you're alone. Remember Grace - you could have lost your license."

"Grace might have been a mistake," Wilson conceded, "but I don't want to live like you, House. No wife, no girlfriend, just a standing account with an escort agency. That's not what I want."

House snorted.

"Did I ask you to live like me? If you want to continue your wife hunt, go ahead. I won't stop you. Staying with me for a while doesn't mean you're giving up. It just means that you get to be a little happier while you're waiting for your dream woman to show up."

There was a long silence while Wilson considered what to do. Perhaps it was the after effects of the violent incident with Paola, or perhaps it was the disconcerting pleasure he felt in House's touch, but he couldn't concentrate. He shut his eyes, enjoying the sensation of House's fingertips brushing gently against the fine hairs of his forearm and the weight of House's arm resting on his shoulders.

There had to be a reason why House was being so nice to him. He'd been a fool to move in with someone as unstable as Paola, and House could have called him an idiot in ten different languages and he would have deserved it, but House had actually been sympathetic. Even though there was probably some hidden purpose behind House's kindness, Wilson still felt grateful. House's motives were probably irrelevant anyway. 

House was right. He did hate being alone. He dreaded returning every evening to an empty hotel room. The prospect brought back memories of one of the lowest periods in his life, after his third divorce, when he'd had to admit that he'd made a total wreck of his personal life. He spent months in a grey fog, searching for a way out of his misery, until finally he'd grabbed on to Amber in sheer desperation.

"Okay," Wilson murmured," I'll move in but only until I find my own apartment." 

House suspected that "finding my own apartment" was Wilson's euphemism for "finding a girlfriend/wife that I can move in with," but House wasn't bothered. Once Wilson was living with him, he was confident that he could scare off all challengers. He had, after all, outlasted three wives and numerous girlfriends.

House sank back into the couch cushions, savouring his moment of victory. The pain in his leg had subsided, and he felt only the exhaustion of a general who had just won the first important battle in what seemed likely to be a long and arduous campaign. 

House sat up abruptly. He leaned over and kissed Wilson. Wilson's eyes opened wide with surprise. House kissed him again more forcefully to reinforce his message. At first Wilson seemed only to be submitting, as if it were his duty as a good houseguest to allow his host certain liberties, but then he started to kiss House back. When House finally drew away, Wilson was red-faced and confused. House was cool and in control. 

Wilson felt disoriented. His perspective had changed in a matter of seconds, and he wasn't sure what he felt about it. He looked at House, who was smiling at him. There was something in that smile which disturbed him. As House limped to his bedroom, Wilson wrapped himself tight in his nest of blankets, wondering whether he had just made the latest of a long series of disastrous personal decisions.

****The next day****

Wilson was in the boxing ring, dodging and throwing punches with professional skill. His opponent, a cartoon kangaroo, was indefatigable, and advanced on him mercilessly. Wilson tried to block his blows, but the kangaroo was definitely winning. He tried a blow to the body, but the kangaroo just bounced back like a rubber ball. Wilson was tiring, and knew that unless he took action quickly he would lose the fight. With all his strength, he launched an uppercut to the animal's chin. The force of the punch launched the kangaroo into the air. Wilson watched as the kangaroo headed for the stratosphere, until only a small dot, and then nothing at all, could be seen. 

"Winner and still champeen!" announced the referee. 

Wilson expected Sylvester the Cat to be the referee, but it was instead House the Diagnostician. House raised Wilson's arm above his head to the roar of a crowd that hadn't existed a second before. House smiled at the crowd, and then turned to look at Wilson, and suddenly they were alone again. House was coming closer and closer, and House was going to kiss him, and even in the dream, Wilson wasn't sure whether he wanted the inevitable kiss to happen or not. 

Then Wilson opened his eyes, and there was House's face only inches from his own.

"Yah!, " screeched Wilson, his voice an embarrassing octave higher than usual. He sat upright, accidentally hitting House in the nose with his skull.

House clutched his nose, and also let out a cry, though not quite as high-pitched as Wilson's. 

"If you've broken my nose, Wilson, I'll never let you sleep on my couch again. I'll let you sit out in the hallway all night in your damp clothes and catch pneumonia!"

"Let me look at it," Wilson said. "Take your hand away, and I'll see if it's broken."

"I'm probably disfigured for life," House grumbled. "I'll spend the rest of my days looking like Owen Wilson."

Wilson grabbed House's hand and pulled it down so that he could look at his nose.

"It's not broken," he said, relieved. "I'll get the cold pack from the freezer."

He headed toward the kitchen, and House sat down on the couch and leaned his head back. There was a little trickle of blood from his nose, and a drop of blood on his t-shirt.

"I'm sorry, House. You startled me," Wilson said, as he handed House the cold pack.

"I figured that was what happened," House said, glaring at Wilson. He'd have to change t-shirts, and he wasn't sure he had any more clean ones. In fact, he was pretty sure Wilson was wearing his very last one.

"When we go into work today," Wilson joked, "with my cheek and your nose, everyone will think we were in a fight."

"Are you planning to go to work today," House asked, "wearing my t-shirt and my sweatpants, neither of which even come close to fitting you?"

"I'll have to pick up my clothes from Paola's place first," Wilson said. "I think I should probably wait until she's left for work. Umm, do you think you can give me a ride to her building? I left my car keys at Paola's apartment last night, and I didn't want to go back and get them, so I walked to your apartment in the rain."

"Do you actually think that any of your possessions are still going to be there intact?" House asked. "Paola will have used her handy butcher knife to slash your tires and rip your clothing to shreds. That's if she hasn't driven your car into the nearest lake."

"It wasn't a butcher knife," Wilson corrected in the interests of accuracy. "It was a bread knife. Will you give me a ride?"

"Yes, I'll give you a ride," House said, "but you'll have to make me breakfast first. Lately, I seem to be doing you an awful lot of favours. I'm supposed to be the needy one."

 

House had changed into an almost clean t-shirt and was driving Wilson to Paola's apartment. Wilson was looking out the car window, pretending to enjoy the scenery.

"House," Wilson said, "what were you doing last night?"

"Sleeping." 

"I mean, when you got up in the middle of the night and we were talking. You kissed me. Were you coming on to me?"

"Really, Wilson, you're a grown man, not an innocent girl from convent school. I hugged you. I petted you like a pussycat. I gave you a massage and then I kissed you. You seemed to be enjoying it at the time. What did you think I was doing?"

Wilson shook his head. He couldn't explain what he'd thought at the time. Really, he hadn't been thinking at all, only enjoying House's touch. It had been a long time since anyone who actually cared about him had touched him. He knew Paola didn't love or even particularly like him, and neither had the woman before her. Not since Amber...

"You were supposed to follow me back to the bedroom for an evening of erotic delights," House said, "but instead you curled back up on the couch. I was very disappointed. First Candie let me down, and then you."

"I didn't mean to lead you on," Wilson said, awkwardly apologetic. "I'm straight. You know that. I thought you were straight too. I had no idea that you felt ...that way. If my staying with you makes things awkward I can move to an hotel."

"I'm straight," House said, " but I'm not sure if it makes a difference. If you're a vegetarian stuck on a desert island and all there is to eat are fish, then you eat fish. If you're straight, and the only person you love and care about is another man...well, you can finish the analogy for yourself."

"Pull over," Wilson said, happy to change the subject of the conversation. "This is Paola's building here. Her apartment is on the left side, third floor up. Do you think the light is on?"

"Can't tell," House said. "Don't tell me you're afraid. She's only a hundred and five pounds, you said."

"But she's got a bread knife. A bread knife can be very intimidating when someone is waving it inches from your face. You'd be surprised how scary a small angry woman with a bread knife can be."

"Do you want me to come up with you?" House asked.

"No, of course not. I can handle Paola if she's there. " Wilson said. "Just call 9-1-1 if I'm not back in fifteen minutes." Wilson came back in less than five, carrying his laptop and an armful of assorted clothing.

"She wasn't there," he said. "Thanks for waiting. I've got my car keys, and I'll just check that my car's okay, if that's all right. Then you can leave and I'll take my car."

Wilson's car was parked in the alley next to the apartment building. The tires seemed to be fine, and the engine started. He waved at House, who drove off. Then Wilson got out of the car and went to retrieve more of his possessions.

House was angry with himself. He'd ruined things with Wilson. He'd pushed him too hard and moved too quickly. He hadn't given Wilson enough time to adjust to the idea of his best friend also being his lover. He was sure that he could have coaxed Wilson around to the idea, given enough time. Wilson was lonely, and he loved House and wanted House to be happy. If only House hadn't rushed things, everything would have worked out in time. The trouble was, House hadn't been sure how much time he had. Wilson was so desperate these days; always looking for the next woman to distract him from his memories of Amber and his regret over his three failed marriages. House couldn't wait; he was impatient and he'd bungled it. He'd scared Wilson away.

 

House had a new case which occupied him all day. He didn't have a chance to talk to Wilson. By the end of the day, the patient was stabilized, and he left Taub and Thirteen to look after him.

"Phone Foreman first if anything goes wrong," House told them. "Don't phone me. I need my beauty sleep. And if Foreman decides that he needs to call me, it's on his head. It had better be a dire emergency. The sky must actually be falling."

 

House felt exhausted and his leg hurt more than usual. He popped a Vicodin as he walked down the corridor to his apartment. As he got closer, he smelled something delicious. One of his neighbours was going to eat well tonight. House opened the door. Wilson was on the other side. House came in and Wilson kissed him. There was a slight taste of garlic, but House didn't really mind.

"I've been thinking," Wilson said. "that maybe the life I've been dreaming of isn't the life I need. Maybe you're right. We can try anyway. Give it a shot. What do you think?"

"Sounds good," said House, trying not to let Wilson see how happy and excited he was. "What are you cooking? It's smells heavenly."

"Just spaghetti sauce. I stole Paola's secret recipe. The magic ingredient is anchovies. You're going to love it."

"I'm sure I will," House said, reaching toward Wilson, drawing him closer for another kiss.


End file.
